Redemption: The Grey Wizards
by lokilette
Summary: They are neither Light nor Dark. Like so many people, they are grey, looking for a way to redeem their past. Chapter 1: Falling Angels (Grindelwald/Dumbledore). Chapter 2: The Brothers Black. Chapter 3: The Half-Blood Prince. Poetry collection. Chapter 4: The Wolf and the Rat.
1. Falling Angels

**Author's Note:** This was previously published and is being moved to where it belongs in an actual poetry collection instead of randomly stuck somewhere. Originally written for the QLFC Daily Prophet competition with the prompts relationships and fire. I love playing with the dark/light and good/evil tropes, so what better way to kick off a poem about grey wizards than with the Grey Kings, Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore? This whole collection will feature wizards who aren't necessarily Dark or Light. Like most people, they fall somewhere in the shades of grey. Next chapter: the Black brothers, Regulus and Sirius.

 **Form:** Prose poetry

* * *

 ** **Falling Angels****

 ** **I. Death****

 _Everything I do..._

Pops of electricity seared the night, spider webs of blue and white fire that ensnared two souls; such is the birth of every romance. Affection clawed its way into their hearts, leaving scars that never heal.

Love always had her asking price, bartering for a moment in the flames. It burned—white-hot pain as two hearts grafted together. Consumed by fire, they danced like marionettes in the hands of Love—golden curls, auburn hair, matching eyes lit with passion. The flutters of their hearts formed an ensemble, throbbing into the night until the darkness shuddered.

Every romance ends with Death; every lover earns his wings.

 _...is for the greater good._

.

 ** **II. Gellert Grindelwald****

 _Everything I do..._

 **White wings wearing grime like a dark suit. Change had been waved like a white flag—surrender yourself, save the others. Resistors were restrained by the same chains that shackled him. Death approached only as a last resort.**

 **Fiendfyre had shattered the night, a whirlwind of passion that charred their souls. Their hearts conversed in a tempest of spells, a bitter argument no one else could hear. Like Atlas, he suffered, a willing martyr—for the good of the people, for the good of love, for good...**

 **Falling left him bruised and broken; such was the burden of sacrifice.**

 **Locked in the darkness, the flicker of light in his soul warred with the blackness.**

 _...is for the greater good._

.

 ** **III. Albus Dumbledore****

 _Everything I do..._

 _Black feathers trailed like a funeral procession, each footfall burned in the sands of time as he marched with Hellfire in his step. The white wizard with black wings and Death as a doppelganger. He rose, like a phoenix, out of fiendfyre, the hero the world waited for—their savior._

 _Regret adorned his head like a wreath of thorns—piercing, tearing, bleeding. Like a plague-bearer, those around him vanished beyond the veil—screaming, crying, fading into non-existence. They slipped through his grasp, one by one, lives surrendered for his sake, for the Light, for the best of intentions..._

 _The red stain of Death will not wash clean from unrepented hands._

.

 ** **IV. Death****

Rattling bones pervade the night, a harbinger as Death approaches. It's echoed in the death-rattle of lungs nearing their decay. No one escapes the cold shudder; greater wizards have tried and failed.

The thestrals prance anxiously, hooves thundering, ground trembling. The chariot behind them, forged from bones, clinks and clatters with memories of the dead. In time, Death stands before each man, veiled in a cloak of shadows.

Before he claims them, he demands an answer.

One question.

"Do you fear me?"

 **"No." (I regret nothing.)**

 _"Yes." (I regret everything)._


	2. The Brothers Black

**Author's Note:** I love Regulus and Sirius and the way that they're so similar, yet also so different, so I had a lot of fun with this and exploring the similarities and differences in their situations. In my headcanon, their story is all the more tragic as I imagine they were inseparable as children, but that all changed when Sirius went to Hogwarts, and they were both wanting, still, to be close but unable to understand the other's perspective, which ultimately drove them apart.

 **Form:** Freestyle

* * *

 **The Brothers Black**

The water ripples; in it, he sees death.

A cold hand grips him: fear.

He falls.

Not for the first time,

there's no one to catch him.

As the water swallows him, he knows:

this is the price of treason.

His lungs burn, despite the water filling them.

He can understand now—

his brother's betrayal,

why he sought the light.

But he is a Black by nature,

so it's fitting, in a way,

that his tomb be eternal darkness.

No one will know what he's done,

his final shot at redemption.

The truth dies with him.

The last thing he hears

is his brother's voice:

" _Please don't go, Regulus."_

 _._

The Veil ripples; in it, he sees death.

A warmth envelops him: peace.

He falls.

For the first time,

there's no one to catch him.

They're all there, the people he loves,

even the ones who really aren't.

There's Lily in Harry's eyes,

and James in his heart,

and he's got Remus now.

He reaches out to them,

because he's not ready to let go.

He can understand now—

the price of his betrayal,

all the people he's hurt along the way.

But he is a Black by nature,

and he can't escape the darkness.

It pulls him in.

The last thing he hears

is his brother's voice:

" _Welcome home, Sirius."_


	3. The Half-Blood Prince

**Author's Note:** This is actually inspired by a poem called "Elegy in Present Tense" by Nancy Krygowski. I love how it focused on both the things that made the person him but also the circumstances around his death and the connection of the two. I thought it was brilliantly done, and I especially loved how the person was more than just his death. I really wanted to use that concept in terms of Snape, for the good and the bad.

 **Form:** Elegy

* * *

 **The Half-Blood Prince**

He's small, all elbows and knees and nose and greasy hair.

He's climbing into his mother's lap, patting her head, touching the bruises,

telling her _everything is fine_ , because it's a song she's sung to him before.

He's curious, he's exploring, he's marveling at the world; he's small

and it's so big, and he thinks _one day, I'll be that big, too._

He's watching her cry—red face and red hair and puffy green eyes.

He's lonely, and she is too, so he talks to her, even though he's a half-blood

and she's just a Mudblood. He tells her _everything will be just fine_ ,

and he starts to believe it, because they are together. _Always,_ she says.

He's wearing second-hand robes, dirty clothes, greasy hair—forever greasy—

hiding the bruises, the loneliness, the fear. He's excelling at potions,

finding new friends, new circles. He's laughing at jokes, saying

 _You would, Rodolphus_ and _For Merlin's sake, Bellatrix._

He's sneaking out, because she's still a Mudblood and he's a Slytherin,

and when he asks, she says _Always_ , and he believes her. Why would she lie?

He's treading cautiously, looking over his shoulder, learning new spells

and inventing ones when he can't find what he needs. He's dodging and cursing,

wondering why it's always him and always Potter. He hates the fighting,

the way she's forever in the middle, but he hates Potter more. _Always_.

He's apologizing, kicking himself, spiraling inside because he's alone and

it's all his fault. He's dying, he's lost his chance (he loses everything),

and if she asked, he'd still say _always._ She never asks.

He's slipping into darkness, looking for a reason, finding purpose,

clinging to those that need him, appreciate him. He's taking

the Mark, taking lives, taking chances, making something out of himself.

He's pleading and pathetic, but he can't lose her, not again.

Even after all this time, it's her. (It's always been her.)

She's dead, and he's dying, holding her. He breaks. He promises to protect

her son, but he's lying. He can't protect anyone.

He says _Don't tell Potter_ _._ (But his Patronus is still a doe.)

He's pushing away, grasping at straws, breaking every time he sees

those green eyes. He's insisting he doesn't care. Why would he? The boy

has his father's looks, hair, arrogance, bothersome attitude, but...

He sees her eyes and her smile and her warmth, and it kills him

to remember what he's lost. (But he still believes. _Always._ )

The darkness is closing in. He's lying, double-crossing, always a traitor.

He's wondering which side will kill him first. He's growing tired of fighting,

tired of the mask, of dress-up and pretend, of letting go, and he hurts—

so much sometimes that he forgets the way things used to feel.

Green eyes remind him, even though he's growing weary.

He's trembling because he knows, finally, and he's ready.

He doesn't feel the pain (he's always in pain), but the darkness is creeping

in, even as he's letting go. And green eyes still remind him.

Even though he's a half-blood and she will forever be a Mudblood,

he meant it every time. He still means it, to his dying breath— _always_.

But for once, he's not sure he believes it.


	4. The Wolf and the Rat

**Author's Note:** I love the dynamic of Remus and Peter. Remus never feels like he belongs because he's a werewolf; Peter loses his place after his betrayal. Yet, they were both once Marauders. But, the Potters chose to trust one and not the other, which ultimately costs them their lives. I think it's a fun dynamic to play with.

A kyrielle is a French poetic form with four-line stanzas with eight syllables on each line and a rhyming pattern (I went with abcb). There's normally a refrain, and I took that idea, but I sort of twisted it to fit my needs with the refrain being tacked on outside of the stanza as a fifth line instead of incorporated into it.

 **Form:** Kyrielle (sort of)

* * *

 **The Wolf and the Rat**

The moon is a harsh mistress;

Still, he's obsessed, counting days and nights.

The fear and love he's always known

under her gaze, but even so,

for once, the wolf is not alone.

.

 _The moon is a harsh mistress,_

 _and for this, he's become a rat._

 _He's always been small, the outcast,_

 _the runt that just doesn't belong,_

 _but he's a Marauder at last._

 _._

The moon is a harsh mistress,

but the wolf can start to forgive

all the wrongs that have been done

for a glimmer of trust, a smile,

just to mean something to someone.

.

 _The moon is a harsh mistress._

 _She watches as he slowly falls._

 _The darkness rises, and he's lost._

 _He's scared, nervous, unaware of_

 _how much his betrayal will cost._

 _._

The moon is a harsh mistress,

and the clouds rise and the rain falls.

Somewhere, his friends are dead, dying,

but the wolf goes on, unaware

that those he trusts most are lying.

.

 _The moon is a harsh mistress,_

 _and he tells himself it's just rain,_

 _not tears. He smothers all the shame—_

 _after all, he reasons, he's a rat,_

 _so they're partly the ones to blame._

 _._

The moon is a harsh mistress.

Under it, a Dark Lord falls, and friends

face off: murder and trickery.

 _You should not have trusted a rat._

The wolf: "You should have trusted me."


	5. Death

**Author's Note** : I confess, this is a guilty pleasure one for me. If you've read my work, you maybe can tell I have a fascination with Death as a character in the HP universe. To me, he's the ultimate gray character, because he will always be Dark (that's just who he is), but he also laments over what he has to do because he views life as beautiful.

I also wanted to vary my acrostic poem, but FFN kills the formatting, so I have to do the first letter of each line rather than any letter in the line. Stupid formatting.

 **Poetic Form:** Acrostic

* * *

 **C** loak — Wand — Stone

 **O** f all the things he'd done, it was by far the cruelest;

 **M** ortals would always cling to the notion of forever, but he knows the truth:

 **E** very life ends in death.

.

 **F** or centuries, the mortal plight has been riddled with an

 **I** nsatiable need, because their years, whether fifty or a hundred, are

 **N** ever enough. The beating heart always knows what comes next.

 **D** eath is forever lurking around the corner.

.

 **M** aybe one day he'll know it, too, that dark stain on the horizon. After all,

 **E** very living thing must one day come to an end.


End file.
